Selfish, shallow, and self-absorbed : sixteen writers on the decision not to have kids

235 Pages·2015·0.98 MB·English

by  Daum

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Table of Contents
About the Editor
Copyright Page

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INTRODUCTION
WHILE WORKING ON this book, I sometimes found myself contemplating a
variation of Leo Tolstoy’s famous “happy families” line from the opening of
Anna Karenina: People who want children are all alike. People who don’t want
children don’t want them in their own ways.
Of course, the original maxim isn’t exactly true, since happy families come in
all varieties, and unhappy families can be miserable in mind-numbingly
predictable ways. And since most people eventually wind up becoming parents,
whether by choice, circumstance, or some combination thereof, my version isn’t
necessarily an airtight theory either. Still, in thinking about this subject steadily
over the last several years, I’ve come to suspect that the majority of people who
have kids are driven by any of just a handful of reasons, most of them connected
to old-fashioned biological imperative.
Those of us who choose not to become parents are a bit like Unitarians or
nonnative Californians; we tend to arrive at our destination via our own
meandering, sometimes agonizing paths. That’s one of the reasons I put this
anthology together. Contrary to a lot of cultural assumptions, people who opt out
of parenthood (and, to be clear, this is a book about deciding not to have
children; not being able to have them when you want them is another matter
entirely) are not a monolithic group. We are neither hedonists nor ascetics. We
bear no worse psychological scars from our own upbringings than most people
who have kids. We do not hate children (and it still amazes me that this notion is
given any credence). In fact, many of us devote quite a lot of energy to enriching
the lives of other people’s children, which in turn enriches our own lives.
Statistically, we are more likely to give back to our communities than people
who are encumbered with small children—not just because we have the time but
because “giving back” often includes returning the kids to their parents at the
end of the day.
To read the essays in this book is to notice that, in many ways, the common
theme is that there is no common theme. Though all the authors are more than
satisfied, and in some cases downright ecstatic, with their decision to forgo
parenthood, no two reached that decision in quite the same way. For some, the
necessary self-knowledge came after years of indecision. For others, the lack of
desire to have or raise children felt hardwired from birth, almost like sexual
orientation or gender identity. A few actively pursued parenthood before
realizing they were chasing a dream that they’d mistaken for their own but that
actually belonged to someone else—a partner, a family member, the culture at
large. As Jeanne Safer so poignantly describes in her essay, she didn’t really
want to have a baby; she wanted to want to have a baby.
That line nearly took my breath away. Though I can now say (and as I wrote
in the margin of Jeanne’s piece), “That’s exactly how I once felt!” there was a
time before that when I hadn’t yet reached such hindsight. Instead, I was trying
very hard to talk myself into wanting something I’d always known deep down
wasn’t for me. Not that things wouldn’t have worked out fine if those talks had
ended with a baby. I had a willing husband and a supportive community of
friends. There’s no question that I would have loved my child with a kind of love
I’d never know otherwise. But when I found my way back to my gut instincts,
when I “stood in my truth” as the parlance goes today, I realized that what I
wanted most of all was to find some different ways of talking about the choice
not to have kids. I wanted to lift the discussion out of the familiar rhetoric, which
so often pits parents against nonparents and assumes that the former are self-
sacrificing and mature and the latter are overgrown teenagers living large on
piles of disposable income. I wanted to show that there are just as many ways of
being a nonparent as there are of being a parent. You can do it lazily and self-
servingly or you can do it generously and imaginatively. You can be cool about
it or you can be a jerk about it.
Typically, it’s been the nonparents who have carried a reputation for being
jerks. Some of that is our own doing. When Time magazine ran a cover story in
the summer of 2013 showing a visibly self-satisfied couple lying on the beach
under the headline “The Childfree Life: When Having It All Means Not Having
Children,” it highlighted a major misconception about the voluntarily childless:
the idea that we don’t want kids because we’d rather have expensive toys and
vacations. Type “childfree” into an Internet search engine and you will find no
end of tirades against “breeders” along with smug suggestions on the order of
“I’d rather spend my money on Manolo Blahniks” and “My reason for not
having kids is that Porsche in my driveway.” Even the term childfree, which was
coined as a way of distinguishing the deliberately childless from those who
unwillingly or unintentionally find themselves in such circumstances, rubs some
people the wrong way—after all, why should children fall into the same category
as cigarette smoke or gluten?
When that Time article came out (the article itself, I should say, showed far
more equanimity than the cover suggested), I had just begun my search for
contributors to this book. The timing seemed perfect. As the subject was being
chewed over in the media, it was clear that the conversation had a long way to
go. Cable news hosts purported to be “shocked” at the idea that some people
don’t want kids (the more diplomatic were quick to add, “Not that I’m judging”).
On the Internet, the standard barbs of “selfish” and “shallow” ricocheted around
comment threads, even as thousands of contented nonparents expressed their
gratitude that the issue was finally being talked about. One night I caught a
public radio program on which a listener called in to say that choosing not to
have children was a totally legitimate and commendable choice but that he
personally had been so enriched by fatherhood that he couldn’t help but think
that nonparents were living incomplete, ultimately sad lives.
If the core message of this book is that parenthood is not—and moreover
should not be—for everyone, the chief lesson of editing the book was that
writing about skipping parenthood isn’t for everyone either. Of the many dozens
of writers I approached (all of whom had at least hinted, in their work or in
interviews, that having children was never high on the agenda), very few were
prepared to take on the subject. Some said that, yes, they were childless by
design but lacked sufficient angst about it to have anything interesting to say.
Some told me they had a lot to say but couldn’t for fear of hurting certain family
members. In one case, a celebrated novelist who’d apparently been known at one
point as someone who never, ever wanted children replied to me with a photo of
his infant son.
That’s why the sixteen essays in this book are such gifts. Brave, thoughtful,
and uncompromisingly honest, they are all tributes to the exquisite challenges of
living what is commonly (and usually inadequately, though there’s often no
other way to say it) called an “authentic life.” Frequently funny and sometimes
sad, occasionally political and always personal, these essays show that there’s
more than one way to be a responsible, productive—and even happy—adult in
the world.
The authors of these essays represent a range of generations, geographical
regions, and ethnic and cultural backgrounds. Despite this diversity, they have
one big thing in common: they are all professional writers. Some will say (and as
Geoff Dyer cheekily insinuates in his essay) that makes for a less-than-
representative sample of the general childless-by-choice population. After all,
artists—especially writers—need more alone time than regular people. They
crave solitude whereas many people fear it. They resign themselves to financial
uncertainty whereas most people do anything they can to avoid it. Moreover, if
an artist is lucky, her work becomes her legacy, thus theoretically lessening the
burden of producing a child to carry it out.
I take the point. But the truth is that writers, outliers though they may be, are
the ones whose job it is to write. They are the ones charged with putting the
world’s complications and contradictions into more universal terms. And while
many contributors to this book refer to their writing lives when reflecting on
their feelings about parenthood, in no case do I think anyone’s choice boiled
down to “writing versus children.” If it were that simple, they wouldn’t have
much to say on the subject. Besides, the majority of writers, like the majority of
nonwriters, want children and have them. For all the talk of a groundswell in
“childfreedom,” for all the ways in which it’s crucial that society stop assuming
that everyone should be a parent, people who want kids will always outnumber
people who don’t. And anyone but the most catastrophizing overpopulation
hawk will say thank goodness for that.
There are notably more women than men here—a thirteen to three ratio, to be
exact. That ratio felt to me more or less proportionate to the degree to which men
devote serious thought to parenthood (at least before it happens) compared to
women, who are goaded into thinking about it practically from birth. Still, I
thought it was essential that the collection include male voices. Too often, this
subject is framed as a women’s issue. But men who are disinclined toward
fatherhood must contend with their own set of prejudices; for instance,
assumptions that they can’t commit to a partner, that they wish to prolong
adolescence indefinitely, or that they’ll be intractably (and gratefully)
domesticated as soon as the right partner reels them in.
The three men in this book draw from very different life experiences. Geoff
Dyer is straight, married, and rather dyspeptic about children and family life.
Tim Kreider is straight, single, and searching for existential mooring outside the
realm of parenthood. In a bittersweet essay about fatherhood avoided by default
as well as by choice, Paul Lisicky, a gay man now single after a long-term
relationship, confesses, “I’d probably say yes if I ever become involved with
someone who wanted to be a parent … though I might be saying it with the same
level of commitment with which I’d say, ‘Of course I’d move to Tokyo.’”
The women’s stories hit just about every possible note. Some are fiercely
unapologetic, such as Laura Kipnis’s jeremiad against overly sentimentalized
notions of motherhood and Lionel Shriver’s confirmation that, yes, human
populations are dwindling in the Western world, but that’s still no reason to have
a baby. Some revisit less-than-idyllic childhoods; Michelle Huneven writes